Moist
by Too Voici
Summary: A story of Funny Words, Aragorn, and Fixing Legolas's ArrowHead.
1. Moist

Moist.

We were all sat around a fire, each doing our own thing. Anyone who has ever gone on a camping trip knows the time I mean. When everyone is at the point where it's not quite dark enough to go to sleep, but too dark to do anything worthy, so everyone ends up doing their own little chores. Legolas was across from me, whittling arrows from bits of wood he had picked up along the way and mending heads. Boromir was fiddling with his belt buckle. What he was doing with it, I did not like to ask. The hobbits were either eating (What, again, I didn't like to ask. I had all the food rations in my pack.) Or already asleep. Gimli was fast gone to the world of slumber too, leaving the rest of us talking quietly.

But it had been a while since anybody had said anything, and even the fire had lulled in its usually persistent crackling. I was going slowly mad with boredom.

"You know what is a funny word?" I said, eventually, to Legolas, who looked up, slightly irked at being interrupted.

"No, Aragorn. I do _not _know what is a funny word."

"Moist."

"… What?"

"I mean, at first you think it's a gross word, because it reminds people of rot and mould, if you watch my lips… Are you watching my lips? _Why aren't you watching my lips?_"

"Alright, alright! I'm watching." Legolas shuffled over from the log he was sitting on and looked directly at my mouth, his eye lashes fluttering against the fires warmth.

"When I say moist – when anybody says moist – it's like a kissing noise, and a kissing motion. Look… _moist._"

There was a silence.

"Well?" I asked.

"It _does_ sound like kissing."

"Ha! I'm a genius."

"Will you two _be quiet?_"

All heads turned to Gandalf. "I'm trying to think."

He shifted back to smoking his pipe with slightly more ferocity then before.

I warmed my hands against the fire, then prodded it with a make shift poker, causing half of the sticks to tumbling in disarray. After having caused that bit of destruction, I was bored again, and had to resort to my second plan of action.

"Legolas?"

"Yes, Aragorn."

"What 'cha doin'?"

"Mending an arrowhead."

I paused. "Can I help?"

"No."

"Awwww."

… No response.

"Come on! Let me help!"

"No, Aragorn. Go to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"That's not my fault."

I grudgingly rolled out my bedding, anyway, to get all sleep before it was my watch. Boromir watched me from out of the darkness, his eyes practically _jovial_ at my expense.


	2. Cough

Cough.

The snow was getting thick, now. Really, really thick. I was dejected that soon we were going to have to turn around, but for the nonce we were stood, trying to find north from south.

"Legolas?" I asked, my face getting blasted by pelts of snow. I looked like some sort of crazy yeti.

The Elf in question, of course, was doing fine. Oh yeah, as is typical of him and his bloody race when you are flopping around like a fish out of water – a horrifically undignified one, he'll be standing near enough to you so you can see that his hair is perfectly straight and is, as they say, cool as le cucumber.

Stupid Legolas. "Yes?" He answered, sweetly. 

"Do you – _Plegh Plegh -_ know what _isn't_ a funny word?"

"Cough?"

"No, I just inhaled the snow that is forcing itself upon my lungs."

"No, I mean, I hate the word cough. There isn't a word for it in Sindarin, you know."

I was pensive. "I never noticed before. Maybe you should invent one."

"And go down in history not as the one who helped save Middle-Earth but as the one who invented the word for cough in Elvish?"

"It would be a noble cause."

We travelled in silence for a little while, mainly because most of us couldn't remember what it felt like to be warm. One of the hobbit's asked if we were there yet and got a clout round the ear from Gandalf, and as a result dropped behind next to me.

"I like the word cough." He said. I think it was Pippin, although it was getting hard to tell with the weather. They all looked like miniature snowmen. "I like the way it's spelt. Cooooowwwwww-phhhhhfff. Or Coooooooooow-ghhh. Or even Co-Ghhh."

I blinked away the frozen rain of doom and looked at him.

"You are a font – no, a _well_ of information, Mr Peregrin." Legolas laughed.

"But I'm Merry."

"Whatever." I mumbled. "No, great. Thanks for that, I've forgotten what my unfunny word was going to be."

"Was it flannel? I hate the word flannel." Legolas volunteered.

"No!"

"I bet it was Cabbage"

"No, damn it! And why cabbage?"

"It reminds me of the word Babbage, and I hate that even more."

I scratched my head, sending a flurry of snow of my hair. "Is Babbage even a real word, Merry?"

"Yes, it means to-"

Gandalf span around and glared at me, as if it was my fault that the snow was falling up to our ears. "Are you going to hang behind and chatter about Babbage's, or are you going walk with the rest of us?"

We all looked at him with wounded hearts, and doe eyes, like children scalded.

"But Gandalf-" Merry began.

"Enough."

He gave a big an act of rebellion as he dared too, kicking a pile of snow, but went ahead with Pippin, muttering. Legolas raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Well. I suppose we'll never know." And with that, he leaped ahead, too, leaving me struggling in the snow.


	3. Cardigan

Cardigan

We were all sat on the floor of the magnificent Forest, contemplating our feeble future. Legolas was starring of into the distant, his eyes glazed. There was only thing that could lighten the mood.

"You know what word looses all meaning when you say it over and over again, Legolas?"

That brought him back. "Now is hardly the time, Aragorn."

"Cardigan."

"Be quiet."

"Cardigan, cardigancardigancardigancardigancardigancardigancardigan" I said over and over again. Legolas's bottom lipped twitched, but before it could betray him and tilt upwards, he got up.

"For once, I don't want to hear your… your… _pathetic _word games." There was no real venom in his voice, so I let him walk away.

I had to think of a good word to get him out of his funk.

-+-

_Thank you for all of the positive feedback, it made my day like a big cheesecake of glory. Not words I would waste on a lesser emotion to what I'm feeling. Hoorah!_


	4. Bumptious

Bumptious

_I'd like to take this time, in this little space, here, to say that I know this probably has a lot of faults, grammatically and characteristically. But I won't apologise – I loved writing it, every single of the 67 minutes I spent writing it (Alright, so I get easily distracted…). It made me giggle no end, the thought of Boromir giving Aragorn a big squishy man hug. And that's all it is, mind, don't go expecting me to do a Aragorn/Boromir pairing. Yucky. _

_Anyway, what I am trying to say is that, this isn't to be taken as anything serious. Seriously, eh? _

_That's enough from me._

_P.S If anyone happens to want to spread the Christmas/New Year cheer I shop at Takuya Angel XD _

_-+-_

Once more I found myself around what would be called a fire if it hadn't been for the slight problem that it was just a bundle of twigs frozen together. It was Boromirs' turn to light the fire, you see. He had viciously rubbed two frosted sticks together for some thirty seconds before throwing them down and stomping of, muttering something along the lines of 'Stupid fire… I'll show it; I'll show _all _of it, and some more…'.

I wondered for months afterwards how someone would go about getting revenge on a fire that didn't exist. I mean, it's not as if he could threaten it with a good beating or, I don't know, tell it if it didn't start behaving it would have to face the idea of a bucket of water.

But that's a whole different story. Boromir had waltzed of, leaving the poor hobbits clutching one another. They always reacted to his random outbursts of emotion like children watching their parents argue for the first time. Rather sweet, really.

To lighten the mood a bit, I shifted in my seat so I could see Merry whimpering beside me. "My favourite song, out of all the songs in the world, opens with the line '_and he called me a bumptious arse-girder_'." I said to him. "Have you heard it?"

"No. Huh..." He thought for a moment. "What's a bumptious arse-girder?"

"I think knowing what it meant would ruin the whole point of saying it."

"…Makes sense."

"Yeah."

And then that uncomfortable silence that is oft to fall over a group of people who have spent the last week brought together only to discover that polite conversation can only stretch so far. To escape I took the only route available – search for Boromir. I left the cosy campsite we had set up and went of into the abyss to find our favourite Gondorian and see if he was prepared to come back in a mood that was somewhere near approachable, as it was getting dark, and the last thing I wanted was Sulky Boromir with me on first watch.

I found him sitting on a log some two minutes from what I fondly called Ringers HQ. He was clenched.

"What up, bitch?" I asked, punching him softly on the arm. I was never quite sure how to act around Boromir.

"…what?" An eyebrow rose, then back to sulking. No time for silly rangers.

I took a seat next to him. "C'mon, Boromir. It's not good for camp moral when you throw things at the Hobbits. Sure, they're easy targets when they've had a meal, and it's funny to watch them run around when you put bags over their heads, but it's just not _sporting._ There something on your mind?"

I deep sigh came from somewhere from the furrowed brow and furry beard. "Nothing that you could help with, ranger."

"Yeah, probably. No harm in sharing, though. Might be something I'm obsessing over and we can be neurotic together and we could go back to HQ and bully the Hobbits as a team. More effective, you see."

Boromir gave it, probably to shut me up about my plans to bother the Hobbits. He spent the next half hour explaining he was suffering from what we humans call 'irritation' at the rest of the Fellowship. Legolas's anal retention, Gandalf's insurable silence, Gimli's rough speech, the Hobbits adorable stupidity and my…well, my everything, apparently, from the way I pulled on my socks in the morning to the way I insisted on touching my elbow three times before going to sleep at night.

I was rather taken aback by this outburst. When one asks 'How are you' or 'tell me your problems' you hardly expect months of bottled up bitterness to come pouring out at your feet. But never-the-less, I gingerly patted Boromir on the shoulder. "We're all a bit tense right now. Give it some time, and you'll get used to everyone's ticks and mannerisms."

"Hah! Yes, sure… I…" Boromir looked down. "I just can't take it anymore." I was horrified to see tear drops fall judgingly onto the ground.

"There, there." I murmured. I wasn't trained to cope with this kind of behaviour.

Then something happened which was Just Not On. With one quick movement, Boromir had me in a grabble-manly-cum-bear-hug thingy. "Alllllright, there, fella', that's enough of that." I said, hiding my nervousness with a giggle. "I think we've had enough emotion for one evening."

The man had strong arms. He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like 'Snurp' and pulled himself away. Without looking at me, he bumbled out "Thanks for the support" And then skittered of back to camp, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.

I felt used.


End file.
